Fingers—the virile cavalry of my hands—graze
over the lush mountains of your calves, gain ground
over muscled thighs, sink and anchor in the bulged
lotus pedestal of your centred hips.
With your foundation so seized, victory is assured:
My lips need merely fingertip your heaving chest
or my tongue but scarcely wet the pulsing of your neck
and all your hesitant suspension collapses.
... Sanko Lewis
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